Send Me Forget-Me-Nots
by bluerobot
Summary: The Irish Lush and a jealous and heartbroken psychopath are in a tent in Joshua Tree. Originally posted on AO3.


**Authors Note:**

**Find me on AO3 :) Warning for swears. Many swears. And alcoholism. I don't own these characters.**

You have no idea what the time is, but you know it's the dead of night, and you know that peyote you took earlier today is finally starting to wear off, 'cause shit's stopped being awesome, and you've just been hit by a fuckin' tidal wave of tiredness.

All you wanna do is sleep now, and you're getting a bit irrational. 'Cause you can't sleep no matter how much you want to.

Because Marty's in your fuckin' tent with you, babbling incessantly.

He's been chewing your ear off now for well over 30- you dunno- maybe 40 minutes. Hours could have passed, you don't fuckin' know. And it's all 'cause he's polished off that bottle of fuckin' whiskey.

You hate it when he drinks. Normally, you would happily listen to Marty for hours. You could sit there, silent, never having to say a word, just smiling at him, just listening to him talk his mouth off all day long. And you'd never get bored. 'Cause the guy's a fuckin' literary genius, and he has so many good stories to tell.

But this? You've had enough of this. 'Cause all he's been fuckin' talking about since the first swig from that bottle has been her.

That fucking cunt.

You've been tuning in and out of this conversation now for ages. You're lip is on the verge of splitting, the skin nearly worn through from you chewing on it, biting back all the seething, curse-filled, vulgar insults that you wanna spawn about that girl. That girl who keeps ruining his fucking life.

And yet he constantly fucking defends her. Every. Time. What is up with that?

Oh shit, he's looking at you. Are you talking out loud again, Billy?

'Well, whaddya think?' he's looking at you earnestly, waiting for your opinion on something.

'Errr...' You breathe in sharply through your nose, eyes widening, you try to hide your surprise by nodding and smiling. What did he ask?

'Thanks, man. I was worried ya wouldn't understand, ya know? I mean, I knew ya would, but I wanted to check anyway,' He slurs.

Goddamit, Billy you need to pay more attention sometimes. One day he'll call your bluff, you'll be caught out and he'll get angry with you. And you hate it when he's angry at you. What the fuck was he talking about? You fiddle anxiously with the pom poms on the end of your chullo hat.

'Because you're my best friend, ya know?' He continues, chuckling and scratching at his chest, he moves himself to try and get in your line of sight, to try and catch your eye, 'and I care what you think about Kaya, I really do.'

Fuck. So that's what he was talking about. Well, he would still be talking about her, wouldn't he, Billy? You purse your lips. You're too fuckin' tired to dish out your true thoughts on that bitch and start an argument. So you tell yourself it's okay. For the hundredth time you tell yourself it's fine because he's gonna come around one day. You smile at him weakly.

'Aw, come on, Billy! Don't be like that!' he says, scooting on his butt across the floor of the tent so that he's sitting beside you.

You can't fuckin' believe this is still going on. Now you're grinding you're teeth. It's her fault he's pissed. It's her fault he drinks. He doesn't know how much you do for him, man. He doesn't realize that bitch doesn't fucking deserve him. You twirl a pom pom in your fingers and stare ahead, glassy eyed.

You want to laugh off all these unwelcome thoughts swimming around your brain, You run a hand down your face in exasperation, and exhale heavily.

He's right next to you now, nudging your shoulder playfully with his.

'Whassa matter, Billy?'

You can't look at him. You can't look at him when he's like this. And you can't tolerate the way Marty, even when he's hammered, absolutely shitfaced, still looks immaculate. You can't tolerate how even though he's sitting there bathed in the unattractive orange tint bestowed by the tent fabric, he still looks flawless. You close your eyes and sigh again. You feel your false smile has crept back on your face. 'Nothing, Marty. I'm just tired,' you say brightly.

He leans his heavy, drunken head on the side of yours. You can smell the sour stench of bourbon pass his lips. That smell that tells you it's been one - no, five - no, ten too many drinks. He's drank so much in order to forget. Forget all the shit Kaya puts him through. Fucking cunt.

'Okay, Billy,' He laughs, and you feel his chin suddenly resting on your shoulder, his breath on your neck. You're not looking at him but you can feel those big, drunken, brown eyes staring up at you. 'I'm sorry, man..'

You told him you're just tired, and yet he still apologizes. You guess he's probably apologizing for his drunk rambling, but for a fleeting moment you wonder deep inside if it's because he understands how much he means to you, and he's sorry 'cause he knows how much of a fucking gut punch it is for you to have to sit here and listen to him talk about how much he fucking loves her. You start pulling bits of fluff out of the pom pom on your hat.

He bats your hands away to cease your fiddling, and you feel his fingers lightly brush your neck as he sweeps the string of your chullo hat over your shoulder. He's nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His stupid fucking perfect little Irish nose rubbing against you and sending a shiver down your spine.

'You're my best friend, Billy, you know that right?' he murmurs in your ear, his forehead now pressed against you.

You glance up at the roof of the tent, biting your lip once more. 'Yeah, I know,' you whisper, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat.

'Did I say that already..?' he chuckles against your skin, his stubble grazing you.

And as he begins to pepper your neck with kisses, all you can think about is the fucking acrid stink of bourbon on his breath.

'I love you, Billy,' He slurs.

And as you feel the unmistakable wetness of his tongue against your neck, all you can think about is the stinging in your abdomen.

'Cause he never remembers anything when he drinks.

And as you feel him laugh softly as he starts to kiss his way along your shoulder, you feel like your stomach is bubbling acid right up through your chest and into your head.

And as his hand moves it's way down your torso and he's mumbling some shit about how he's sorry and about love and shit, you're fighting back tears, and it's fucking tearing you apart.

'Cause this isn't the first time he's told you this.

And it won't be the fucking last.

But he never remembers.

He always goes back to her.

He never fucking remembers.


End file.
